on the edge of her bed.
Her room smells like the vanilla body spray every girl in her class wears. And like the knee pads she keeps forgetting to air out.
I didn’t mention the knee pads.
After a while, she said, “He’s not wrong, you know. He’s not my real dad.”
She stared at the fan going around.
“I just thought, I don’t know. I thought it didn’t matter anymore.”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
“Apparently it does to him.”
I put my hand on her ankle.
She let me
